


Of Screaming Phones and Borrowed Shoes

by RationalistRomantic (Chryses)



Series: Of Objects and Letters [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, John is literally clueless, M/M, Magical Realism, Sherlock the philosopher, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 00:07:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryses/pseuds/RationalistRomantic
Summary: "And when I-” Curse his damn throat for being so uncooperative. He’s all about making this all about him, isn’t he? “-it comes back?" Just for that one sentence, he’ll allow himself to be selfish.Holmes frowns, stroking the side of his chin. He doesn’t appear to realize (or care) about the misspoken words. His eyes say nothing, but there's a distinct sadness to them that John can't quite dismiss.Damn. Just...damn. There’s no reason that he should be this upset with his friend for not noticing. For not seeing. Damn him."They don't." he says after a moment of silence; completely oblivious through the tearings of John’s every synapses."But when they do? What then?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posting this again, but made A LOT of changes to the plot. Part 2 is already done, but won't be posted until I can do some editing first. Please read part 1 first to understand the story.
> 
> Enjoy!

**I**

_Tick tock tick tock tick tock_

_Bzzzzzzzzt!_

 

Sherlock lazily re-positions himself for the thirty-eight damn time. Great. Fantastic. Highlight of the fucking century; there’s nothing more interesting than tolerating the sound of creaky joints for the past few hours.

“You know, that was the seventh ring in the past day, didn’t you?” He attempts at calm and patience, because he’s a bloody fucking doctor and he will not lose his patience over this man.

 

No? Still nothing, eh?

 

“Sherlock.” He tries again, more softer and less demanding; his temple pounds at yet another dismissal.

 

He groans wearily onto his own palm. The world continues to revolve.

 

‘ _There’s no use hiding. I know where you are._    **M** ’

 

“He says he knows where you are; don’t tell me we’re going to have to get you a restraining order.” He drops the bloke’s phone back to his lap. He’s even stooping as low as being this bastard’s receptionist. Still. He _will_ keep it together. “Anybody I should know? A friend, maybe?” Or a stalker, or a murderer, or even a fucking girlfriend who still can’t recover from a breakup...or boyfriend...which is fine...FOCUS GODDAMNIT!

The tosser snorts. He knows he’s supposed to be angry, but fuck! That’s the most progress he’s made for the past few weeks.

“What?” It’s a perfectly reasonable question, but they each have their own standard for reasonable; rather _he_ does, and Sherlock disregards anything not related to some complex case as ‘boring’ or worst _predictable_.

“Nothing, just.” He waves a lazy hand in the air like the comment itself is beneath him - which it probably fucking is, but sod it all; he’s not going to be able to make progress at this point. Sherlock’s eyes darken just a second too fast. No, not creepy at all. “Your assumption really _is_ something.” And if he ever sees a man sucking on a lemon, Sherlock’s expression just now is probably the best imitation; is this an opening for him to laugh?

“What?” No matter how much of a cock Sherlock Holmes is, there must be _someone_. “You’re supposedly immortal; shouldn’t  you at least have -” he swallows down the word ‘friends’. “- people to... to come in once in awhile, and say hi?” This man doesn’t live in a fucking ivory tower...right?

At the comment, the wanker becomes stalk still, with blood draining his face, and he’s back to that blank fucking slate. He’s looking at John like he just presented his willy, and couldn’t be anymore disappointed. Well, fuck. Did Sherlock finally malfunction? He's stuck between wanting the idiot to snap out of it, and _needing_ to know how he did it.

Sherlock takes an embarrassingly long time to provide a response, and when he speaks, his voice sounds off. Any possibilities that he caused some sort of brain damage? “John, though I have invited you to live with me,” Shit. Is this heading where he thinks this is heading!? “- the offer doesn’t necessarily extend to pursuing a relationship; I consider myself married to my work, and although I’m flattered that you were offering -” And the fucking ship sets forth to its doom.

“Nope.” Un-fucking-believable. “No, I wasn’t - uh -” Good god, Watson. Don’t tell me you’re getting tongue-tied over a misunderstanding. “ - I wasn’t offering,” He takes a careful breath through both nostrils, and attempts to ignore the odd sensation of sweat slowly massaging his neck. My god, it’s like fucking Afghanistan all over again. “Just..you know? Surprised that you don’t have friends, ‘s all.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to say another word, but the doorbell rings again and since it wasn’t another bomb, he just barely manages to stick his arse on the cushions; god, can things be anymore awkward? The tension is definitely thick enough to slice cheese...or something.

 

“So how does it work, the doorbell?” Obviously he knows the mechanics - or at least the process of it, but why fucking not? He needs to do _something_ , or he’ll be pulling all his hair (or Sherlock’s, either one, really) out in no time.

Sharp eyes and brooding sneers at him. Just like Hol - nope. That chapter in his life is over and done with. Fucking hell.

“There’s a door down the stairs that leads to the front of the flat, and there’s a small circular object beside said door on the way in that’s called a doorbell -”

This whole breathing thing is getting addicting.

“You know that’s not what I meant; how does your system work? With the mail slot?” From what he can remember, all it takes is a ring, and an item comes out on their end. Is it some kind of futuristic whimsy, or just magic? The scariest thing is that neither can surprise him when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. “It can’t exactly just be you getting packages, and...I don’t know...popping over to some dramatic narrative that I can barely keep up with?” Or is it just a vanity thing? People sending this...less-than-likeable man things he doesn’t need, to play around with if he’s bored. Again, another thing that will not be so surprising if it does occur. Should he make a list or something?

“Then please, Doctor.” Yep. That there is sarcasm - something that this bloke is apparently fluent in. Dick. Harry Potter mumbo-jumbo, magical beings, some sort of ‘chosen-one’ scenario? He’s picking at a very limited amount of straws here. “Do indulge us with the _proper_ way to receive one’s mail, _other_ than receiving it from the mail slot, or _through_ the post office.”

“Don’t be a tit.” It’s not unreasonable. He’s never been not reasonable. Hello. Doctor. Sherlock is a bastard - true fact; now the whole lack of ‘friends’ idea is starting to make sense. It is an _insult_ to compare him to someone like Holmes; dear lord, what was he thinking?! “You know what I’m talking about; it’s either you fess up, or I’ll continue with it until you say something that resembles an answer.” And he can be stubborn about it; he’s pretty adept at that...next to Harry, of course.

The other man scrutinizes him with a weird sort of amusement with the way a corner of his cheek hollows for a quick second before vanishing completely (is that a dimple? How can Sherlock Holmeses ever have adorable dimples?! It’s like a fucking World War 3 or something). Does his anguish translate to some sort of comedy act for this prick?! A damn 4 year old is perfectly capable of answering such a simple question (actually, scratch that, bad example).

“It works just like any sort of mail slot.”

The blokes supplies after a long moment. Must not fucking let it show Must not let it fucking show Must not let it fucking show. But, apparently his acting skills are lacking, and Sherlock looks - if-not - a thousand times more smug in comparison to a few seconds ago.

“Postages, envelopes, packages, it works with one function.” He’s even counting with his fingers at each example. Yep. Over-the-moon smug.

“Then how -”

“Only difference is that the cases I receive from people are sent with strong intent; _anybody_ can send anything to anybody, but it loses its purpose if there’s a lack of personalization; marks to identify ownership. The stronger the sentiment, the more turbulent the item becomes.” Sherlock reaches for his forgotten mug by the table beside him, and brings it to his lips; he cringes as he chugs down the rest of the beverage. Serves you right, you bastard; cold tea is definitely what you fucking deserve (he should know, he made the ruddy thing about an hour ago)

He ignores the empty mug waving about in front of his face in favour of continuing. “But how?”

Sherlock raises a brow in annoyance when he realizes that he’s not getting another cup without providing something substantial. Surprisingly, he continues. “There’s nothing but inane chatter with you, isn’t there?” Not the worst thing he’s been called, but that’s not really an answer.

Sherlock slides the mug across the table with a harsh scraping sound, and lays back onto the couch with the crook of his elbow over his eyes. The glare is evident, even behind pale skin. Oooh. So terrifying...well, as scary as a baby otter, more-like.

It’s flattering that Sherlock at least expects him to catch on to the latter’s thinking, but sometimes people hate looking _and_ sounding like an idiot; he is hardly an exception to this. “The way a person acknowledges something makes the world of difference; caring for a treasured stuffed toy, or a photograph of a dead grandmother. The items themselves are irrelevant in itself, but adding meaning - sentiment over an inanimate objects defines their existence.” His voice is like...velvet icing as he says this - an amazing contrast to how he usually speaks. Is there something that John’s missing?

 

He unconsciously clutches at his tattered watch.

“And…” He hazards, hoping that he’s translating everything in his head correctly. Don’t fuck this up, Watson. “Acknowledging them brings life to them...how? By...markings?”

Sherlock sits up sinuously with his arms resting limply at his lap; a flash of...something flickers over the detective’s face, something within his reach, but unattainable all the same; Sherlock quickly yanks at another newspaper to his face, and begins browsing again with his expression hiding behind an ad for Dip & Flip burger; speaking of, when’s dinner?

“Precisely; the stronger the value, the stronger the object is. It’s that simple.” Says he from behind the papers.

“So, the thing with the -” Lunatic worker with a brooch.

The paper crinkles.

“Yes,” The flipping staggers for a moment, then resumes in no time. “ - there can be tedious ones like those, which is why I try to generally avoid them.”

“And if you can’t?”

There’s a long pause. A very long pause that it almost feels like years.

Another page flip. “Who knows.”  Nothing about the sound of his voice is enthusiastic about the idea - maybe he isn’t too keen to finding out the details of when it does occur. Not that John can blame him; the feeling is surprisingly mutual.

“Okay.” He says the word again, smothering his jeans with sweaty palms. Fuck it. ADD might not be something he has, but just sitting here is ridiculous. On his way towards the staircase down, he finds interest in studying a particular hole on his sock. “Now I may not be as experienced as you with all these... _things_ ...but I know many people need your help, and I’ve only been with you a few months; responsibility or not, I’m getting whatever it is waiting for you downstairs, and you will pick one case. _One_. That’s all I ask.” all I can ever hope for. He doesn’t stay to wait for an answer.

Now the staircase might’ve been creaky at the time, but he’s sure Sherlock murmured something along the lines of “dealing with the problem himself” as though he’s expecting for John to fuck up. Which, yeah, he has a point, but he’s sure as hell not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing John wince at the comment. He’s a bloody grown-up for fuck’s sake, if he can’t take shit from people, then he shouldn’t have been a captain more than once in the army.

When he heads down (ignoring the unmistakable glee on his steps, because embarrassing) - like shooting your first gun - he tries not to give into the satisfaction of inexplicable excitement burrowing warmly in his stomach. Though they have only gone through one adventure together - so far - he hasn’t encountered any of the symptoms from his quirk, which is as good as anything in life, really - anything can happen. He’s not a ticking time bomb, but he knows when time has taken its toll on him, and it’s time to see to more opportunities in life, and all that cliche bullshit romance novels tend to allow.

 

Let’s see; nothing, nothing, huh? Nothing, more nothing, and just when he thought that his mission proves to be fruitless, he finds a bloody phone underneath all the pile of interesting paper works sent from different parts of the world. Huh, maybe stamps aren’t so boring after all.

“Sherlock!” He practically prances up the staircase. “Sherlock! We got ourselves a case!” He hardly notices that he’s carrying the whole stack up with him until he sees the man in question posed imperiously; his whole frame draped over the sofa. All he’s missing is a maid (not a volunteer), and he’s the perfect example of an arrogant prince. “Sher -”

“No.” Well, what a way to successfully kill the mood. He kind of wonders whether Sherlock takes classes for it, or he’s just a plain natural. He favours the latter.

“But -” He frowns towards the lone object, then back to his companion. Sure there’s nothing redeeming about it, but a cheap scrap of metal, but surely - the lazy sod who claims to be some kind of detective - will see something redeemable about it. It’s not like he has much going on anyway, at least from the the time that John’s witnessed so far. It’s better than moseying around the flat for weeks and drown on countless tea bags saturated in a fuckton of agave syrup - which can potentially induce a sugar high after two to maybe ten spoonfuls. “- you said these can get violent, so why -”

Sherlock glares, and slaps on a sticker on the inside of his forearm; it’s beige in colour (a huge contrast to the pale skin beneath it), and shiny.

“What’s that?” Sue him if he’s not exactly well-versed in the ‘modern’ world just yet.

“Nicotine patch.” He says behind a release of breath. “Helps me think.”

John has the urge to snicker whilst unconsciously gripping an edge of an envelope. It’s a tick he usually has when he’s trying to not bite off more than he can chew. Maybe it’s the soldier in him, or maybe it’s his way of coping with his own losses, but he can’t just stand back and watch this man destroy himself (immortality aside); not after what he went through with all the people he cared for, and lost. Making connections, only to inevitably lose them in the end. Then a cold shiver runs through him. What about Sherlock?

“And you think that’s going to be helpful, do you?” He might as well be spitting fire if it helps to get his message across. However, the thought still continues to hum beneath his skin.

“Tremendously; my brain is not provided with an off-switch; at least not ones readily accessible, therefore it needs constant stimulation; nicotine patches is hardly a death wish.” His attention drifts lazily towards the items John is carrying, and rolls his eyes. “And I wouldn’t be too bothered about that thing; useless trivialities; hardly worth assessing.”

“Aren’t you a detective?” He _was_ always known for his ability to be mad at anything. How fucking dare he?! Of course he can’t exactly judge him to an extent; Holmes as well craved the most interesting of cases; even the Jack the Ripper case can hardly amount to a candle that is Professor Moriarty, but he came close enough that _even_ the history books have him on file. He tries not to take it personally, but it just ends up there in the fucking end, doesn’t it?

Fuckall, if the bastard kicks him out by the end of this.“Why don’t you do yourself a favour, and _solve it_.”

On his way down the staircase, he barely blinks an eye when he reaches for one of Sherlock’s Oxfords; the foot-feel itself is like massaging one’s feet in melted butter when he slides them on; although slightly oversize by about maybe three inches, he can’t deny himself the satisfaction of getting even. Two can play at that game.

  


><

 

It’s only after a few blocks into his cool-off meander does he realize that a vehicle is tailing him. He’s definitely sure, because even in an empty street, the car is no less than a few metres away. He stomps on the urge to walk around town in circles just to irritate whoever they were, and use this opportunity to get the hell away if he values his life.

Feigning another turn, he slips within a gaggle of tourists and their U.K. travel guides, snippets of broken english, and foreign accents, secretly giddy that he’d at least managed to lose whoever it was. However, there is a small part of him that knows _knows_ that the whole thing is yet to be over.

 

Another wave of people pass by, and he takes that as a cue to transfer crowds; being mindful at every turn, he snags a glance from behind. Phew, now all he needs to do is find a way _back_ towards Baker Street, and bully the unbearable toff to some kind of apology or something close to it. Heck, even an apologetic glance is sounding more appealing the more he thinks about it.

 

Did that surveillance camera just turn in his direction?

  


And just when he thinks that he sees a familiar street, a woman in a dark, clean, business attire (Hmm, and those curves, god - stay focused, Watson), approaches; her nose perpetually buried on whatever is on her phone. Okay, so he might have some competition with pulling this one; ruddy things phones are. And they’re not even alive, for god’s sake!

“Doctor Watson, please get into the car; my employer has expressed some interest in meeting with you.” Some? Is there even anything partial with meeting someone? It’s either you do, or you don’t. Nothing in between.

Attraction (and his cock) aside, the offer poses no refusal towards it.

“Your employer?” He repeats with a frown. His eyes does a quick scan of the street, and finds nobody present in any corner to witness the meeting; a bit odd, that, because just a second ago he could’ve sworn that there are at least a few faces walking alongside him. “Is there any point on asking who that is?”

She smirks and (finally) looks up. If this woman isn’t so hell-bent on kidnapping him, then he’s sure they’ll get along quite nicely. Hey, being a soldier does have its perks.

“He says for you to glance at the buildings behind you, sir; to...acclimatize yourself prior the meeting.” The other half of the words directing towards her device.

Giving her a sceptical glance, he cautiously eyes the CCTV contraptions aiming directly at him, then back towards the streets. His heart rate spikes higher than he wants it to, which is just perfect. Just bloody perfect. Sherlock will probably only notice his disappearance _after_ they find his body. Best fucking time to experience greener fucking pastures, ain’t it?

 

Licking his lips, he goes for it anyway.

 

“Listen, maybe when I -”

 

“In please.” Bollox! Worth a try.

 

He’s about to ask what she’s implying too, a black car swivels, and comes to a halt beside her. Oh. That.

  


><

 

They arrive at an abandoned building with rusting pipes, and horrible lighting. It’s the picture-perfect image of dramatic; next thing he knows, he might even encounter a ‘vampyre’, or something equally as horrible: an assassin of the future trying to kill a time traveller to prevent a huge tragedy from happening. Hold on, that might not actually be too bad; sure beats having to argue with Sherlock 60 percent of the time.

“Ah, John, so nice to finally meet you.” Sharp, stormy eyes curve in amusement when he eyes John’s shoes. Is it really that surprising that he’s wearing expensive shoes? Not like he actually owns them, but it’s still offending that people make assumptions that he can’t afford luxuries.

 

Turning his head for a convenient exit, he is just realizing that they’re in the middle of nowhere, and his only ride went off somewhere just after his feet touched ground.

At the sound of his name, he heads stiffly towards the lone figure in a loose-fitting suit; no fucking choice, now, does he? The latter leans towards a black umbrella (which brings back old memories) with one foot thrown casually on the other leg. He also has reddish receding hair that is probably combed with the finest of brushes, and his eyes are like storm clouds and poisonous snakes behind bushes. Instantly, he knows this man is not someone to trust. His instincts are rarely wrong on this one.

“Doubt I can say the same.” He takes one step, and another before stopping at least a few metres away. “Who are you, and why am I here?”

“Ever the pragmatic, are you? Now I see why Sherlock takes on quite an interest,” Definitely not a fucking answer.

At the mention of his companion, he straightens his spine, and feels a rush of goosebumps scattering in his arms

“Ah,” The pompous arse regards the change with slight amusement. This fucker; if that sneer progresses any further, one of them is going to leave this place with a nosebleed or a black eye (not him, obviously). “The bravery of a soldier; didn’t anyone tell you that bravery is by far a nicer word for stupidity?”

At the continuous lack of response, baggy suit exaggerates a sigh whilst re-assembling himself to a full standing position; one hand gripping tighter on the wooden handle, and the other waving towards the single empty chair. He’s not a fucking dog, so obviously he doesn’t do it.

“Your leg must be hurting you; sit down.” It’s neither a request or a plea; it’s an order. Nope, not a commanding officer, this twat can go rot in hell.

He grinds the back of his teeth slowly, but decides to remains still. This is not the time to second-guess whether this man knows of his identity or not.

“I don’t want to.” He flexes his hands a few times before glaring straight ahead. Boiling, he thinks, is an accurate description of his blood underneath all that skin. “How do you know Sherlock?”

“Irrelevant.” Ginger man replies with a sniff. Even the casual look of indifference appears practiced. Good thing John has the patience of a saint to at least consider hearing this bloke out. “We have a what you might call a ‘difficult relationship’, and though he is aware of my invitations, he somehow surpasses my radars without fail; interesting ability, that quirk of his; it’s like he knows every inch of London like the back of his hand.” A slow smirk unravels from a corner of his lip. “In fact, he just might.”

His heart picks up at the mention of somebody else apart from Molly (who has yet to react over many of Sherlock’s confounding idiocy to show up at Bart’s with an injury, only to lose it in a blink of an eye) and he, knowing of Sherlock’s remarkable ability (at least as far as he knows, apparently). Is it even a secret to people? Is this some kind of alternate universe where fuck-all happens, and it’s normal?

“I might be wrong, but that’s none of your business.” His tone shift to gravelly, and he makes a turn to try and head to a nearest exit (wherever it was - he just hopes that he doesn’t trip on something on his way there). There’s hardly an obligation to stay, regardless of being an enforced one, no less. “We’re done here.”

“Even at such a brief stint, you’re _very_ loyal, _very_ quickly.” His steps halt, but he doesn’t turn around. He knows that the man is reeling in the line, but he doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction just yet. “Though I can’t say that I’m too surprised, you two seem quite taken with each other; one might propose that you’ve known the other for decades rather than weeks, what say you?”

His ears perk, and he swivels aggressively to scrutinize the pompous git. Surely he doesn’t know about John being a time traveller...or does he? Calm down, John, maybe he’s just trying to intimidate the shit out of you just to get information. Deep breaths, that’s it.

“What are you talking about?” He inwardly snorts. What the hell is this man thinking?

“You’re a medical man, John; surely you can’t be that daft.” The man smirks toothily, tilting his head in a show of superiority. Right then and there, he wants to punch the shit out of the bastard if that will take that smug look off his face.

Minutes tick aggravatingly slow, before something dawns on large-suit’s face. He looks almost apologetic. Nononono, nobody is allowed to look at him with pity, not now, not ever. Period.

“Why do you care?” His ears are ringing as he speaks. He’s uncomfortably more off-kilter than he’s willing to admit. “Why are you interested in Sherlock?” Something is clicking on the back of his head, and he can’t quite put his finger on it.

But he doesn’t answer him.

“I see.” He chuckles in a way that suggests that he’s anything but humourous; the rest of his face remains pinched and decidedly in quiet turmoil. “He hasn’t told you yet, has he?” Told him what? Is this an unravelling play or something? Romeo and Juliet?

“Tell me what?” He grits. What is this big secret that this bloke who exudes endless wealth, age well above his own years within a span of seconds?

Whilst he studies John’s expression, he shakes his head with his mouth set on a thin line.

“Oh, Sherlock.” He sighs with an ounce of mournful familiarity in his voice.

He trots closer to John with a hand out. What is this? A meeting to sign a contract? They’re not exactly buddy-buddy with each other, so why initiate it? “I doubt he’s ever mentioned my existence at all, but I’d like to offer you my sincerest apologies on behalf of my little brother; I’m Mycroft Holmes.”

His whole attention suddenly focuses on the singular hand, then towards Mycroft; he tries to pick out features of resemblance, but finding that there are none; other than the sharp feel of dissection when under Holmesian gaze, nothing about this Mycroft Holmes is visibly alike to Sherlock - well, other than some of the mannerisms, but that’s as far as he knows.

The proffered hand remains steady.

“You had the same parents, did you.” Well obviously it’s a shock more than anything; what’s next? That they’re half-brothers separated at birth?

Mycroft eyes him understandingly, and smoothly slides his hand back at his side.

“Well, I suppose our family resemblance may have been distinct centuries ago.”

“What do you mean by that?” Cosmetics can be a possibility, though John can’t see why Mycroft will ever fall into that kind of thing in the first place (he is - by normal definition - handsome); he can be wrong, but somehow he leans more towards not.

“It is exactly as I said.” Mycroft replies haughtily, and turns a dramatic 180 with the bottom flaps of his suit swishing slightly that reminds him too much of a certain someone.

 

There’s too much mystery surrounding these brothers than he can bear at one time; anymore revelations today and he might as well abandon his sanity altogether. “Now I do appreciate your little visit, but it would seem that our little meeting has gone far longer than anticipated; do give Sherlock my best.”

Though the vehicle from earlier arrives from behind, John refuses to move.

“Why don’t you visit him yourself?” He leans on one foot uneasily. Might as well shoot two birds with one stone. Sanity can go fuck itself in the arse. If he is anymore sane than anybody he’s met since his landing in present day 2010, then he sincerely doubts living in 221B will ever be an option in his quota. “Since you’re brothers.”

Mycroft startles at the suggestion, but it can easily be mistaken for a small twitch.

It takes the man longer than John expects before replying; he turns his head a bit to the side, voice a soft hush.

“I would if I could.”

“Meaning?”

Mycroft sighs tiredly, almost sounding worn and mournful. His eyes briefly flicker towards something close to John’s stomach before leaving the area altogether.

“Goodbye, Doctor Watson.”

 

“Wait!”

And Mycroft Holmes disappears from sight itself the moment he merges with a dark area of the room. For a second John thinks that the whole meeting itself is just his imagination dipping into the loony side, but the brief click comes after assures him that presently, he’s mostly himself; somehow it’s not at all reassuring.

 

God, he has A LOT of things to discuss with the idiot when he gets back to the flat.

 

><

On his way towards Baker Street (in a significantly slower pace than he intends), he takes a momentary breather before he decides to cross the street towards the front door.

His steps stutter the moment he sees the familiar three steps, and uncomfortably yanks at the collar of his jumper. It’s not that he’s debating whether he will enter or not (because there’s very little doubt in his mind that he will...eventually), it’s just that he’s not actually sure how to approach the idea of confronting Sherlock altogether. On the one hand, yes, he feels a twinge of tightening in his chest because of their fight earlier, but his curiosity to know more about the detective serves to grow by the day.

It’s a ridiculous thing to entertain, but he sure won’t as hell tell that to the bloke in person.

“Watch where you’re going.” He finds himself with his back to the wall in order to make way for an oncoming bystander who bumps his shoulder whilst trying to navigate around John, which is fair enough (he is standing in the middle of the sidewalk after all).

“Sorry.”

The stranger passes without acknowledging his apology.

He breathes a deep sigh before taking the first step in, only to hear the sound of ringing. In his momentary confusion, he looks back from his original spot, expecting something to jump at him, but the ringing ceases two seconds in. He shrugs, and heads inside; better late than never.

><

“Sher -” He stops immediately at the sight of his flatmate in the same position he was in earlier, though there’s a cutting intensity in Sherlock’s gaze that he doesn’t know what to make of. He freezes from the threshold, and remembers their argument from earlier; if he can really call it that. Right. Well, at least he’s jumping in with a clearer head. “I...Hi.” Maaaaybe not.

It’s like speaking to an empty room; the only acknowledgement he gets from the other man is a familiar crinkle of the papers (if that’s even a reply at all). Sherlock himself is resolutely avoiding his line of sight, and shifts his position so that he’s facing the window with his knees to his chest, and the papers he holds rests awkwardly on his patella.

All of a sudden, a similar memory comes to mind when on his down time Holmes just sits by the window and watch rain drench London to no end; a particular mournful expression on his face like he carried the burden of the rest of the world in his shoulders.

 

-

 

 _"The determinant of longing, dear Watson, is only determined when the chance of acquiring a valued thing again, in its original form can be the most painful feeling in the world."_   
  
_John takes a few moments to mull over his own thoughts. He’s getting a distinct feeling that there’s something more to what Holmes was saying_   
  
_"And when I-” Curse his damn throat for being so uncooperative. He’s all about making this all about him, isn’t he? “-it comes back?" Just for that one sentence, he’ll allow himself to be selfish._   
_  
Holmes frowns, stroking the side of his chin. He doesn’t appear to realize (or care) about the misspoken words. His eyes say nothing, but there's a distinct sadness to them that John can't quite dismiss._

 

 _Damn. Just...damn. There’s no reason that he should be this upset with his friend for not noticing. For not_ **_seeing_ ** _. Damn him._   
  
_"They don't." he says after a moment of silence; completely oblivious through the tearings of John’s every synapses._   
  
_"But when they do? What then?" he's not quite sure where the insistence is coming from; all he knows is that he must know the answer even if his life depends on it. He's hardly a believer of fate, but if there's ever a chance that they will meet each other again, then he wants to yearn until that time comes: even if the chance is feeble. His friend can apologize to him later._   
  
_Holmes blinks in surprise, and he fully faces John with something jaded, but there's a sliver of glow to them that mirrors his own. The sun may just about explode, and he still wouldn’t have broken contact._   
  
_"If they do..." he leans his head back to curve over the neck of the armchair. His eyes hides beneath dark lashes "Then..."_   


-

  
He couldn't quite remember the rest because it was a while ago, but at this moment, he despises himself for ever forgetting the answer.

Will trying even be worth it if Sherlock turns away in the end? Is this (whatever _this_ is) even worth it?

He scratches his head agitatedly. He’s a bloody doctor for fuck’s sake, why can’t he figure out how to help the madman properly? He gives the detective one last glance before heading towards the kitchen, digging through every shelf, and nook and cranny for a snack, a distraction, anything; he settles for a cup of tea instead.

Whilst he waits for the kettle to boil, he takes out two mugs, and a plain squeeze bottle (amongst many other similar bottles - obsession, he thinks, will probably be the best way to describe Sherlock’s fondness for them) labelled  “Agave Nectar” on a special shelf with stark yellow “WARNING” tapes sticking messily to the wood. Posh prick.

 

At a lack of a better word, he mindlessly taps his fingers on the counter; racking his head for his best small talk material. When should he mention it? There’s literally no fucking opening whatsoever.

“So, find any case at all?” He mentally massages his own forehead to soothe the irritation at his astounding lost of social skills. God fucking damnit. “Lestrade sent you any phone call yet?” A page turns. “For god’s sake Sherlock, you haven’t been out for anything for the past few weeks. If you’re that bored, why can’t you just...I don’t know, solve one of your cases that I brought up this morning?” He knows that it’s a long shot, but he worries not only for his own peace of mind, but also the rest of London, if Sherlock remains this way. “Don’t you care about them at all?”

The words seem to trigger something in the detective, because what is once a hunch lone figure transforms to something else entirely. What’s scary is that somewhere in his gut, he just _knows_. There isn’t really a physical change, but suddenly he isn’t so familiar with this man, at all. Slowly, he watches Sherlock sinuously make his way towards him until there’s practically a breath of distance between them.

“Will caring about them help save them?” And it’s there, the way his voice just sounds so artificial, so...steady, but not, that he’s actually not sure whether this person standing in front of him is the same Sherlock Holmes who takes too much agave on his tea; detective extraordinaire.

 

He idly wipes at the sweat pouring down the back of his neck; Sherlock smirks at the sight. “Though sometimes a vice, like overindulgence can be solace on a man’s last day than having to suffer healthy.” He stalks just a bit closer that John can smell a distinct balance of fragrant-smelling flowers; the scent intoxicating; any longer exposure to the scent, and call him punch-drunk. ”Value diminishes in times of priority.”

Lava, he feels lava in his veins. Disregarding the point made by the detective, he continues.“There are lives at stake - Sherlock - actual _human_ lives; I just wanna know; do you actually care about that at all?” Advocating endless doctrines about it will not change anything.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, his gaze reflecting needles and sharp blades.

“You’re a doctor aren’t you? Will it make a difference whether you cry by their bedsides?”

He grits his teeth, and fights the huge urge to just hit something to make himself feel a little better.

“That doesn’t give you the leeway to just -”

“Centuries, Doctor Watson; don’t you think that’s long enough to formulate one’s own beliefs?”

He studies his companion in complete silence, and find that he can’t find any. Although he can protest some more, he can’t help but feel irrationally angry that he can’t just fucking give the man an answer. Be it misanthropic, or cynical, there’s just no winning with him.

And if he thinks things can’t be anymore worst.

 

“By the way, I met with your brother today.” His feet are already leading him towards his room. He can’t do this, not now. “He sends his greetings.”

 

  
And the door closes in finality.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
